Ify clenches her fists at her side, fighting the guilt that rises like bile in her throat. “But Paige and Amy. He could hurt them. I could have him sent away, and they would be none the wiser. They’d think it was simply the luck of the draw.” She waves away the concern. “Besides, Nigeria is safe now. It’s not like Vanuatu. It hasn’t been swallowed by waters. It is still there.” And she realizes then that she’s thinking of the deportation Grace had shown her, the child who had fallen into a coma, the family weeping in the aftermath of receiving their deportation orders, the unconscious child wheeled onto that aircraft to be spirited to a home that no longer existed. “The economy is rebounding,” she says, her voice faltering. “There’s peace. It’s a familiar place for him.” As she speaks, her voice loses conviction. “The rebel groups have been put down.” When she says, “There is peace,” one last time, she can’t bring herself to believe it.

“They all deserve your help.” Then Céline ends the call.

Ify tries to speak, but a sob catches in her throat. She remembers when she and Céline would walk to school and get stopped by the Alabastrine immigration authorities, and they would have to wait on the sidewalk, standing by the large, intimidating police vans while their classmates walked by and snickered. She remembers the aid workers who fed her in the dorm and those moments she would spend with Céline at the Viewer, looking out at the stars and seeing their futures plotted in them. She fights and fights for the resolve to move against Peter. To condemn him.

Until she gives up, closes all the tabs, and powers down her devices.

“What am I going to do?” Ify asks, not knowing if she means the unknown medical condition that has afflicted an entire hospital ward or the fifteen-year-old child soldier named Peter.

CHAPTER

12

Like this, we are bringing rememberings to people.